Grown in Half
Kiss my collarbone goodbye.
Cut, crisscrossed, against its ridges
and, for the last time,
engrave your teeth on my skin.
Burrow them under my blood vessels
and tear the feeling from my breast.
And when you’ve finished,
lick the taste of me from your lips,
slow
and try to birdcage it in your brain
so that, someday, you can sit
and listen to the memory of me sing.
Lift your head from the prospect
of my final harvest,
and there will be the face of my affection
for you,
hollow
and watching your appetite end.
Luckiest
Today, while it was still warm,
I walked for hours in the sun.
I imagined that my arm
was elbow-deep into your bones –
the brittle, white cage that protects your pulse.
I broke the shell of you,
pulled at the cords and squeezed them between my fingers –
tangling and tearing any fiber that would be frayed.
I tied their loose ends back together,
and lingered in your cavern,
carving into the walls
any words I thought beautiful.
I imagined that your blood was slick and orange,
full of pregnant seeds.
You: a pumpkin I was harvesting,
and I felt warm and healthy.
I imagined you,
rotten,
melting into the dirt
beneath my feet.
